


12 Days Holiday Challenge 2020

by boundinshallows (museme87)



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Ficlet Collection, M/M, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Pining
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-03
Updated: 2020-12-03
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:01:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27855566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/museme87/pseuds/boundinshallows
Summary: A collection of ficlets written in response to the 12 Days Holiday Challenge.
Relationships: Tommy Shelby/Alfie Solomons
Comments: 3
Kudos: 18
Collections: Peaky Blinders 12 Days Holiday Challenge 2020





	12 Days Holiday Challenge 2020

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not quite sure what the posting schedule for this looks like this year. I'm going by on the seat of my pants here, but I thought I'd give it a go.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 1 - Pine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "On the first day of Christmas, my true love gave to me..." Yikes, a lot of angst to kick off the holiday season. And a non-holiday ficlet too! I'M SORRY. 
> 
> **Day 1** \- Pine  
>  **Day Specific Tags/Warnings:** Modern AU, Alcohol Abuse (past/present), Pining, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Sex for Money (but not exactly sex work as such), Implied Alfie/Other

“Have a right mess on our hands, don’t we now, boy?”

Alfie tosses his keys onto the sideboard and braces himself against the kitchen sink, head dropping between his shoulders before taking a deep breath. Cyril’s nails click across the floor, the sound driving sharp pain into Alfie’s throbbing head and causing his teeth to clench. He exhales to the count of eight and inhales to the same. The grounding exercise does little to exorcise the ghost of bright blue eyes that have haunted him for the better part of the day.

“Fuck it,” he announces.

He saved it for an occasion like this—a gift from some who had been fucking foolish enough to cross him once and had to pay the bloody piper eventually. (There was a good deal more extracted from that encounter, wasn’t there, but this was the only thing that gave him a bit of pause). He stashed it in the home office in an impressive bit of cabinetry where he kept all manner of questionable things. So there he heads, his steps heavy and quick—Cyril’s own rushed clips following close behind—because if he lets himself overthink it, well…

 _Well_ , if he lets himself overthink it then he’ll be sensible, and Alfie’s not quite ready to be sensible just yet.

The bottle is shoved in the back where he’d left it two years ago. Cyril noses at the it and licks the dust from the neck, wet tongue swiping across Alfie’s tight grip.

“Nah, can’t let you have any of this. Poisons the mind, and you’re too smart for all that, mate.” He swings his arm around Cyril’s shoulders and pulls Cyril into his side, kissing him sloppily. “Me on the other hand? Yeah, don’t have to tell you, do I?”

Alfie drops into the office chair and kicks off his shoes, eyes the bottle of dark brown liquid like it’s about to pull one over on him. (It will—no fucking question about that). After a long moment of stillness, he works the sterling silver top off the pretty bottle quickly and puts its mouth to his own. A dangerous liaison if ever there were one.

Eight years sobriety gone, quick as that.

No sense in blaming anyone but himself, course. But if he _were_ the type, well, he might blame Tommy. Tommy, who all those months ago heard Alfie tell his men that Jewish women were off limits, that they might consider themselves just a fucking gay as him while in London. Tommy, who said _not one for secrets, eh, Mr. Solomons_? with a thoughtful frown and nod of respect. Tommy, who took to taking off his jacket at their meetings to show off the curve of his arse in those bespoke trousers. Tommy, who dared to lean in against him after dinner and brush his lips against Alfie’s jaw before pulling back and saying _no, this ain’t me_ with gin on his breath and lust in his eyes.

Alfie takes a pull of the rum, sucking it down like a hungry infant at its bottle. A waste. Was meant for sipping, not this; the notes lost on his tongue save for the nutty, fruity aftertaste that lingers between swigs. His mouth is warm with it, and he hates it—hates how he’d rather his mouth was warm with something else.

It’s not long before he starts feeling it—his tolerance not being what it was—and the fog is a welcome thing.

“Firs’ you take a drink,” he says slowly, quietly, eyes narrowed at the bottle. “Then the… _drink_ takes a _drink_ , then the drink…takes _you_.” Alfie hums. “Fitzgerald. But y’knew tha’, Cyril. Bein’ a man o’ letters, s’right.”

He toys with the rum, rubbing the bottle between clumsy palms. Dropping it would be a kindness to himself. He’s not so far gone that he doesn’t know it. Maybe that’s why he finally sits the bottle on the desk, holding it there for a moment as if its unstable even though its quite secure.

Thick fingers reach for his mobile. After two failed attempts, he unlocks it and manages to get himself into his photos. He scrolls up to that night a few weeks back, to the photo of Tommy drunk and looking at him like he has two heads for raising the camera. The subsequent photo is of a rare smile. The video that follows captures two seconds—two seconds _seared_ into his _skull_ —of Tommy’s huffed laugh and annoyed expression before Tommy reaches to take the phone and Alfie evades him. It’s not even ten seconds long, yet it captures one of the most enjoyable nights of Alfie’s rather dark and tired life.

He’s not drunk enough to text Tommy, but it’s a near miss. His fingers hover over the screen, heavy with words of affection, of anger and frustration. Alfie wants to say _I can’t get you out of my mind_ or _I’m half-mad for you_ or the dreaded _I might be in love with you_. He doesn’t though. The sentiments are all true enough by his own estimation, but they’re phrases people have worn meaningless.

Instead, he calls up one of his semi-frequent lovers—one that came into the picture about a year ago now. Dark haired and fair eyed with a sharp tongue and more bravado than sense. The lover doesn’t mind playing a part—they both know that he’s not meant to be himself at all—but he does mind the short notice. Three thousand pounds is enough incentive, and to Alfie it seems like a deal. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The rum that Alfie is drinking is Legacy by Angostura that comes in at $25,000 a pop.


End file.
